


Nettle

by MadiYasha



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, HARLEY: ORIGINS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadiYasha/pseuds/MadiYasha
Summary: Performing comes so naturally, the movement of his legs and the swish of his wrist and the voice that normally stutters and cries commanding moves with aplomb. It’s transformative, unreal, the contrast between his performing self and his regular self. He wonders which one is the real him, only for a moment.





	Nettle

**Author's Note:**

> MAURY EXCLUSIVE: Pacific Northwest woman falls deeply in love with a cactus.

He cries.

Cries when he trips and gets grass stains on his knees, cries when the teacher calls on him in class, cries when the little brunette steals his last snack. It’s so routine at this point that it feels an inseparable part of all he is, sobs sputtering from his throat and tears streaming down his face. Quiet trails on his cheeks, so at home there, he’s surprised there’s not permanent stains.

‘Crybaby’ might as well be his name. After all, it’s not like the one he was given ever did much for him. He wishes he could tell them that there’s a reason for the way his heart cracks open so easily, overwhelming and too bursting for the size of such a small child. Wishes he could say that he was abused or tortured in some way that has left him in permanent disrepair. Sick as it is, maybe a justification would gain him more sympathy—but there’s nothing. Pawing through his memories for any cruel origin, he thinks about how his parents aren’t often home, but when they are, they’re kind. Sometimes, he feels like his insides do not entirely match his outsides, and like he is living in a different world from the people around him, but…

It’s ten years of long, lonely days. He wakes up, he goes to school, he loses himself somewhere while he scribbles messy cursive on his papers. He eats his lunch—the one he cooked and packed for himself, so carefully arranged. He ignores the giggles from other students when he walks by, and he sits against his favourite tree, and he cries. What else is there to do? The boats come in and out of the harbour, and his days blur together up against the sound of shiphorns and wingull. There are children on the beach with bare feet on the sand, and he wonders how they smile when all he’s ever felt is glass.

Crybaby’s parents aren’t there to see him off when he leaves, let alone to make sure he does it correctly. He’s got to go, though—what is there for him, here? Nothing but tears. Tears he so hopes will dry up once he hits the road, once he’s walking. Crybaby shoves a handful of pokéballs in his bag and prays that the world will work the rest out for him.

As he’s heading north, shaky pedals forward masking the tears that are threatening to unearth themselves, slate blue eyes catch the contest hall that towers beside the singing sea. There are no pokémon in his pocket, and even if there were—could he do it? Could he stay longer until the lights within the stadium lit up with promise? Could he stand under them, knowing every soul in the city would be watching him?

The first tears on his journey come before he’s out of town. They come when he’s looking at the contest hall and thinking of every Coordinator who’s stood inside it, when he realizes that the only thing that’s ever made his heart swell with promise is right in front of him, and he can do nothing to connect it to his own path in his mind.

Crybaby blinks his tears away, sniffling hard and climbing on top of his bike. He tears through Cycling Road, and the wind around him sends long aubergine curls at his back like a purple trail of fire. He doesn’t know where he wants to go. He just knows that he wants to be gone.

There’s an upcoming contest in Verdanturf, he hears as he’s pedaling, and maybe he can find a pokémon before then? He beats himself up for his fear, for how shy he is that he didn’t dare to find someone who could stock him with what he needed—lacking a pokédex, running on outdated tourism pamphlets and flashcards tumbling haphazardly around his backpack. Crybaby’s only got so much food stockpiled, and when he runs out, that’s it. Unless he finds a way to battle or perform, he’s going to starve out here.

Trudging up rocky mountainsides, joints burning with exertion, he thinks maybe he might have taken a wrong turn. A local hiker sees him looking worse for wear and asks him where he hails from, and Crybaby holds back tears and squeaks out a ‘Slateport.’ The hiker’s eyes go wide, and in an instant he’s cooking the first warm meal the kid’s had in weeks.

“Verdanturf is south, you must have taken a wrong turn at Mauville,” he tells him, when they’re parting. “The long way ‘round should get you there in three days time.”

The boy bites back tears, knowing the contest is in two. “I-Is there a sh-shorter way?”

The hiker bothers his beard, unsure as to if he should say anything. He elects that a timid boy like Crybaby probably wouldn’t be bold enough.

“Through the sandstorms, on route one-eleven,” he tells him. “But you don’t wanna go that way, kiddo. Not without proper safety gear.”

Crybaby swallows, nodding obediently at him. He bows, thanks him for his time, and moves his trembling legs towards the desert.

* * *

He struggles aching muscles through heavy sands, a hand thrown in front of his eyes as he shudders with sobs. The sun dips on the horizon, but the winds do not stop for an instant, whipping glassy shards of earth around him, leaving cuts all across his bare arms. When the first chill of night hits, he’s certain he’s going to die here. His end reached at age ten. Not a single ribbon, nor pokémon, nor accomplishment, nor friend to his name.

Crybaby collapses, knees first, then hands, and lets out an unrestrained bout of bawling. He coughs sand out of his lungs and clenches a hand over his mouth, shuddering out small wails into it. He’s so tired. He’s done nothing but move for weeks, and there’s absolutely nothing to show for it. He’s exhausted, and cold, and alone, and perhaps this is who he was meant to be—a nameless boy, found dead in the desert. Frozen to death from the cold of everyone who ever ignored him.

He fades in an out of consciousness, and in a brief period of waking, catches it—black silhouettes surrounding him, cutting jagged shapes against the starlit sky above. The hypothermic conditions must have gotten to him, because he swears that stars have unhinged themselves from the sky and traveled downward to hang around him, bright amber and glistening brilliantly. Crybaby blinks again. They’re not stars. They’re eyes.

He wills himself to focus on the shapes, unsure what it is he’s seeing. They’re on every side of him, arm to arm like demonic paper dolls, thick needles piercing galaxies from the heavens. The scene registers, and he’s immediately awake, paralyzed with fear.

The sandstorm has stopped. The only sound across the sandy plain is the errant howls of mightyena on mountaintops far away. Five cacturne stand around him, their eyes ravenous and devoid of mercy.

Crybaby’s eyes are wide as they can possibly be, small noises caught in his throat, jaw hanging open, whole form shaking. A cacturne tilts its head, cruelly amused, perhaps giving the tiny human a chance to run before he is devoured by the unforgiving desert. The pokémon chatter amongst themselves, closing in on him. There’s a guttural cry, then a lunge forward, and he blinks so hard that the stars come back and he’s wishing to them that his end is quick and painless.

The pain never comes, nor does the end—a shrill shout echoes across the still night, and Crybaby opens his eyes at a slugma’s pace. In front of him, the tallest cacturne is halted, something caught around its leg pulling it backwards, making small noises of protest. It falters, tripping over itself, and the rogue within its group jumps in front of the boy as he lays there, motionless.

Within their ranks, the fledgling cacnea turns on its kin. It’s shouting fragments of its name at them, so small in the wake of their towering menace. Golden flowers like a crown atop its head, legs so short all it can do is waddle, it makes a barrier between Crybaby and his demise, screaming at its seniors to reconsider. They’ve brought the little one out to learn to hunt, and while they sensed its hesitance, this is a bit much for even it. It’s incredibly worked up, now, angry tears in its eyes, arms moving around wildly.

This human is only a fledgling, too, they realize.  _ Would you forgive a human that dared to harm me, when I am small and still learning to defend myself? _ the cacnea asks. Quiet murmurs spread throughout the lot of them. Crybaby stays still. He stays still as they talk, stays still as the tiny one protests. He stays still when the tallest cacturne among them picks him up off the sandy ground and begins to walk. He stays still when it begins to glow an eerie green, and ethereal roots wrap quietly around the both of them, holding him in their embrace. 

At first, he does not feel the needles pressed into his soft skin. The freezing bite of the barren night took his ability to register pain long ago. When the vines pulse once, he cringes. The spines on the pokémon carrying him set in, and he has to blink back tears once more. Almost as soon as he feels them, the sting leaves again, and with it goes the chill gripping his soul.

The walk to the desert’s edge feels like nothing. The fear in his heart is gone, and with every soft emerald dopple of the greenery he’s entangled in, he feels more and more at ease. The cacturne carrying him kneels, placing him in the soft grass. He recognizes the route with almost instant clarity—Mauville is just south, and Verdanturf is an easy bike ride away.

Eyes shining, he looks up at his predator-turned-saviour. The cacturne mirrors his intensity, its eyes cast aglow against the black night around them. From beside it, the little cacnea takes slow steps toward Crybaby, its eyes knitted together in concern. Its seniors make dark vocalizations, calling it back. It turns its body around instead, standing beside the boy with a hesitant look lining its features.

For the first time since he’s gained company, Crybaby speaks.

“D-Do you…” he trembles, tears in his eyes. “...want to stay with me?”

The cacturne share more contemplative looks. Speaking amongst themselves, their sentiment is clear—the little one was soft to begin with, there is a chance that maybe the desert is not the place for it. The night is growing shorter, and they’re running out of time for tonight’s hunt, and who are they, to keep a child from a grander fate? Jealousy flowers in darkened hearts, and the eldest cacturne snuffs it out and silences it. Its on its knees in front of the boy and the cacnea, now, and it places a nettled hand gently on the smaller pokémon’s head. Slowly, it moves its gaze to Crybaby, hoping to break through the language barrier and connect their feelings as one.

_ Take care of it, _ the boy can understand, though he can’t say how. The cuts on his arms are gone, and the freezing chill lingering in his bones is evaporated, and he feels like he can run a mile even though he hasn’t eaten or slept in hours. He is alive, and there is an undeniable debt that fact leaves within him.

He nods, more confident in the single gesture than he has ever been in his life. His eyes meet the shining alabaster of the small pokémon beside him, and he does what he does best, rivulets flowing from his eyes.

The pokémon smiles, the holes that form its makeshift mouth curving into joy. It reaches out an arm, and Crybaby gently places his palm against its end, letting the spines rest against his hand without piercing it. They’re almost comforting, a stranger kind of fur.

He pulls away, still awed at the cosmos hanging above and why they’ve decided to spare him in such a kind way. Slowly, he digs into his bag and pulls out a pokéball, trying to steady shaking hands as he raises it toward the cacnea.

Without letting the boy close the gap, it leaps forward to headbutt the ball. When it shakes a few times, anxiety flowers in Crybaby’s heart— _ is that supposed to happen? Did it change its mind?— _ but almost immediately, there’s a mechanical click that sounds like a whispered reassurance, and he’s struck with the realization all at once that he has a pokémon.

He’s still staring at the ball when his hushed awe turns to the first grin he’s worn in what feels like years. The shell cracks open and lets Cacnea back out with a glistening blue light show, and it beams its name up at Crybaby, re-introducing itself as his companion.

It turns to the cacturne still lingering behind them, giving them a determined nod. They all nod back, and disappear into the sands as the winds kick back up. It’s only when they vanish entirely from sight that everything hits, and Crybaby loses it all over again.

His cacnea is at his side, now, making worried noises and desperate to assuage his pain in whatever way it can. He doesn’t know how to tell it that for the first time in his life, the tears he’s crying are of utter joy.

* * *

Crybaby sucks in a breath and takes another look at his first ribbon, and it’s hard to believe where he is now and where he was just a few days ago.

No longer starving, no longer passed out in the shifting sands, no longer fighting for his life and for his dreams. No empty pokéballs in his pocket burning a hole through their fabric, at least one friend by his side. And what a friend it is.

The boy finds it strange, the sensation of having someone rush to defend him, someone to wipe his tears. The tenderness of such a prickly creature astounds him, the needles covering it so easily betraying the size of its heart. He supposes that makes sense—perhaps when you’re soft, you have to cover yourself in spikes to make sure no one takes advantage of you.

On stage, they’re perfectly in sync, despite all the odds against them. They’d formed a tight bond in the few days they’d traveled, fumbled through a few battles together. After tearing through the team of a breeder on a connecting route, she’s handing Crybaby his prize money when she makes the comment that grows his pride a size—

“You’re a Coordinator, aren’t you?”

He swallows, smile coming to his cheeks. “What… makes you say that?”

“You don’t battle like a typical trainer,” she grins. “All those acrobatics and sparkles… yup, definitely a Coordinator!”

He’s gotten better at keeping the tears down, beside Cacnea. But the comment sends the kindest sentiment to his soul, a warming thought ringing around in his head—

_ She can see me. _

There’s appeal ideas battling each other for dominance within him, but when he sees Cacnea envelope itself in the vines that healed his heart, he can think of nothing more beautiful for their first performance. On stage, cheers echo around him, and whoever he was disappears. The boy who cries, it seems, is only a child who exists outside the contest hall. There in its center, with applause deafening around him, he forgets his namesake, and dreams up new ones in his head.

Performing comes so naturally, the movement of his legs and the swish of his wrist and the voice that normally stutters and cries commanding moves with aplomb. It’s transformative, unreal, the contrast between his performing self and his regular self. He wonders which one is the real him, only for a moment.

Back in the present, he’s staring at the ribbon in his hands when quiet gossip, near a whisper, catches his ear. The boys on the other side of the tree he’s propped against don’t know the subject of their conversation is mere inches away.

“I mean, his appeal was good, but it’s… creepy, right?”

“Yeah,” the other pauses. “Definitely creepy.”

Something unpleasant pierces his heart. The ribbon in his hand seems to lose its luster in the sun of his heart as dark clouds roll over it. From cloud nine, he stumbles and falls backward, and his wings are not large enough to save him from the plunge into the angry seas below. 

He cries.

* * *

 

Crybaby doesn’t win his next contest.

He cries not over the loss, but because the first time was so effortless. Near-death notwithstanding, coming up with the routine and winning the battle and pulling it off, he does it without breaking a sweat. The second time around, he struggles, but he finds something—sparkly, and elegant, and not creepy at all. Exactly the kind of stuff any other Coordinator is doing.

It’s not a hard loss, either—his points are decent, but he’s just barely outshone, never seeing the second round. Somehow, it hurts more than being outright demolished. His next contest goes point-for-point, exactly the same.

He’s up against a tree with his cacnea clutched softly in his arms, doing what he so excels at. There’s a dip in his tears, a moments of peace he’s granted to collect himself, sniffle and wipe at his face and hiccup back more sobs. In the stillness of it, someone speaks to him.

He raises his head from where its buried in his pokémon, and Cacnea swivels around, too. There’s a girl in front of him with long red hair and scraped-up knees, and she grins a toothy grin as she leans down to meet Crybaby’s eyes. The sun frames her like there’s a halo atop her head, and the boy’s heart skips a beat. She toes the line between scrappy and elegant, a rough-and-tumble fighter dressed in lip gloss and jasmine perfume.

“It’s okay, y’know!” she says, and Crybaby just peers up at her, words lost on him.

She leans back, out of his personal space, and continues.

“You’re gonna lose sometimes,” she says. “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad Coordinator!”

He wipes more tears from his eyes. “You were watching?”

She nods, and sits down next to him. “I competed with you in your last two contests, too! I don’t blame you if you don’t recognize me, though. There was a lot of good talent there.”

A breeze blows past them, and Cacnea looks adoringly towards this girl, fighting the urge to trust her with everything it is, right off the bat.

“N-no, I remember, I think,” the boy stutters, sniffling. “You had a lapras, right?”

The girl nods again, beaming. “Mhm! We came all the way from Kanto just to compete.”

“Wow,” Crybaby says. “Kanto…”

“Where are you from?”

“Oh, Hoenn, uh—” he sucks in a breath. “Slateport.”

“Oh, I just missed the contest there!” she sticks out her tongue. “Guess I’ll just have to go extra hard to make up for it, huh?”

He’s nervous. There’s a pretty girl being nice to him, and he wonders when she’s gonna ask him out as a joke or laugh behind his back or call him a fruitcake and walk off. His hands tremble. She notices, and softens her tone.

“Hey, when you’re sad, what makes you happy?”

Crybaby doesn’t have an answer to the question. It’s not one he’s been asked, before. 

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “I guess it would depend on what I’m sad about.”

“Right now,” she says. “Why were you crying? Is it cause you lost?”

He nods, and blushes, as if it’s a silly thing to cry about. The shame that lingers around him is thick.

“Do you want advice, or do you want reassurance?” 

It’s such a kind, thoughtful, empathetic inquiry, and he almost doesn’t know how to deal with it. There’s such a wiseness in this girl’s innocence, a walking contradiction of comfort. To want to help, well, that’s human. To want to help in the best way possible, that’s angelic.

“Both,” he says, and immediately feels greedy. The girl smiles, as if she was hoping for that answer.

“You’re one of the most incredible Coordinators I’ve ever seen,” she says, and his eyes turn to saucers.

“Wh… what?” he asks her.

“I’ve been dreaming of becoming a Coordinator since I was a little girl,” she explains. “Dancing in front of my TV, reading every magazine, memorizing routines from the Coordinators I adored most. And you just fell onto the scene all at once, won a ribbon in your first contest, and  _ deserved  _ it. It was unlike anything I’d ever seen.”

His heart swells with pride, but it immediately flickers out, and he recedes back into himself. The girl is on him, then, inquiring—

“I gotta know, though,” she says. “Why did you change your style?”

His lip quivers, and he can’t meet her eyes. His words shake when they finally come, and his pokémon places its arm gently on his cheek to stave the tears off.

“Th-they—” he cries. “They said I was creepy.”

“It was totally creepy!” she affirms, and his heart shatters. There it is. There’s the cruel twist of fate. Cacnea turns to her at lightning pace from within his embrace, a white glow gearing up on its arms, ready to fire pins and needles at her for daring to say something so awful to its master. She continues before either of them can react—

“That’s why you  _ won, _ ” the girl tells him, and the pain subsides a touch.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Do you know how tried and true the routine of contests can be?” she says. “There’s only so many moves you can combine, only so many vibes you can go for. We’re living in a world of elegance and glamour and high art, and as much as I respect my peers, I sometimes find myself zoning out during a more predictable performance.”

Crybaby listens. Her words awaken something.

“And that thing you did, with the vines—the way they tugged at your feet, and how you shattered them with Pin Missile? That was incredible! The audience was gripped with fear! Do you know how brave you have to be to know everyone else is gonna go for sparkles and fire, and take such a hard turn?”

He swallows. “B…  _ Brave?! _ ”

“Yeah!” she says, immediately. “You had no idea if the judges would be receptive, especially not as a beginner. But you did it anyways, and that’s why you got the highest score in the whole appeal round. You’re not just a good Coordinator… you’re  _ fearless. _ ”

“I just…” he sniffles. “I just did what came naturally.”

“Which brings me to my next point,” she says. “You’re not doing that anymore, and it’s showing in your performances. I can see you holding back, and so can the judges. That’s why you lost these last two contests.”

“B-but—” he goes to protest, and realizes her words make sense. The statement fizzles out in his throat.

“I can’t guarantee you’ll win your next contest if you go back to it,” she says. “But I bet you’ll see round two every time. And maybe I can kick your butt myself!”

She sticks her tongue out again, and his heart soars, and he hates himself for protesting when she’s said so much to help him, this beautiful stranger.

“Do you think if I win enough…” Crybaby says. “...they’ll stop being mean to me?”

“Nah,” she says, and the bluntness of it hurts before it registers as oddly comforting. “Listen, no matter who you are or what you do, someone’s gonna have a problem with it. Just last week I heard some Coordinators complaining about Johanna’s newest dress.”

The sentiment genuinely makes him feel better. Well, if  _ Johanna _ couldn’t impress them…

“So if people are always gonna complain, you might as well have fun and be yourself, right?”

Her logic is impenetrable, even though his damaged heart wants to protest. He swallows the urge, not noticing when he’d started smiling.

“Hey, that’s a smile!” she says. “Did I help? Even a little?”

Crybaby nods, and stands up, reinvigorated all at once. She stands beside him, extending a hand.

“I’m Solidad,” she says. “I guess we’re rivals!”

He mutters his name out, a little noncommittally, and she tilts her head at the sound of reluctance that comes with it.

“It’s never really felt like my name,” he elaborates, timidly. “I’ll let you know… when I find a nicer one.”

The wind blows through Solidad’s hair, and when she smiles again, he forgets his name twice as hard. He doesn’t know if she’s the kindest soul among this earth, or if he’s just been so deprived of kindness that he’s unaware of how it lurks on every mountaintop, in the dark of every desert, underneath the canopy of trees.

“Why don’t we catch the boat to Lilycove together?”

* * *

 

It’s farther in the future, and Crybaby’s got five ribbons to his name, and he’s headed to a place he never wants to set foot in again, hoping the walls of the contest hall will keep him safe from his origin. He’s bunched up on his bed with a sickly pallor across his face, and Solidad is running fingers through his hair while his cacturne fumbles at the sink in a desperate attempt to bring him water. He lets out another whimper, curling in on himself.

“Sorry I was rushing you like that,” she says, a little embarrassed. “I always forget how seasick you get.”

“S’fine,” he mumbles. “I don’t see how you could, though, considering I almost yarked all over you the first time we were on a boat together.”

“I mean, you’re from a  _ port town _ ,” she mentions.

“And now you know why I left,” he says, forcing a smile. 

Cacturne places the glass by his bedside, and he looks up at the dark angel, his most constant source of care and protection. He takes a moment to linger on his outfit, the golden crown tossed haphazardly on the floor and the green that clings to his arms. He looks to it, then back to Cacturne.

“I need a new getup before the festival,” he says, quietly. “We don’t match anymore.”

Cacturne gives him a look— _ is that really what you’re worried about, right now?— _ and he returns it with a tortured smile, shutting his eyes and drifting off.

Later, he’s up at the cabin desk with a single lamp over his journal, and Solidad blearily opens her eyes in the early hours of the morning to address him. 

“You’re still awake?”

Crybaby’s crying when he faces her. It’s the first time she’s seen him live up to that namesake in a while. As if following the thought, the conversation takes a turn.

“Solidad,” he whimpers, and the tears aren’t mournful. “I think my name is Harley.”

She climbs out from under the blankets and off the top bunk, not taking a moment’s hesitation when the statement registers with her. His given name is more like a cryptid than a title, and where normally she says peoples’ names as though they are going out of style, his is a hushed whisper only stated when absolutely necessary. The epithets she’s bathed her words in are endless, she’s run the gamut of ways to refer to her rival that don’t involve a part of him he’s disconnected from. He says the words, and she’s at his side in an instant.

“Tell me all about it,” she says, like she so often does, and he nervously paws through his book.

“You’re Kantonian, right?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Born and raised.”

“I just... I’m Hoenn-born, but I never really learned much of the language of the region, myself…” he says, embarrassed. “The dialect is only slightly different from Kantonian, so maybe you know it, but this word here—”

Solidad glances over it, two strong characters like soldiers beside each other. On the right, a sturdy sort of cross, and on the left, a mishmash of vertical and horizontal brushstrokes that she can’t help but marvel at, a little. The point at the top of the character almost reminds her of Cacturne’s pointed head, and it’s beautifully poetic, how easy it is to see her friend within it.

“Haa-rii,” he says it, dragging out the syllables, hitting the ‘r’ in such a way that it sounds like three letters all at once. 

“It does sound nice,” she says. “Does it mean anything?”

He is soft at his core. Soft, easily moved to tears, waterfalls upon waterfalls of them swirling around inside his heart. Across the cabin floor, a half-sewn jacket is bunched up in a pile in the corner. The perceived sharpness on the chartreuse sleeves of it boast a sentiment, a lie to keep his yielding insides safe. He wipes the tears from his eyes, smiling brightly. 

“It means  _ needle _ .”

Solidad laughs, a little, and Harley’s amazed at how in anyone else, it would dip his heart somewhere dark. In her, however, nothing’s ever sounded more wonderful.

“Look at that soft boy I found crying under a tree,” she says, and he blushes a little too furiously. “Now he’s a literal prick!”

“C’mere and say that again, Sol!”

“Don’t mind if I do,” she grins, and suffuses adoration into the next word. “ _ Harley. _ ”

His fire dissolves, and he wants to faint at the way it feels on her lips. Like winning your first ribbon. Like a benevolent spirit carrying you out of the freezing desert. Like the best friend you’ve ever had cheering you up after a hard losing streak. Like home.

Slateport comes into view outside the cabin window. He doesn’t see it, his eyes still on her.

Like home.

  
  


Harley’s points hit zero, and he’s made small below his dearest friend’s portrait, displayed proudly on the LED in front of him. He feels wind across his back in the applause of the crowd, pulled violently in two directions at the urge to cheer alongside them and the pain that lingers in the wake of the loss. He cradles Cacturne in his arms, thanking it for the hard work it’s done before tenderly pressing a capsule to its temple. 

Solidad has her hand out, and there’s little hesitance in taking it. If he’s going to lose to anyone, he’s so glad it’s her. There’s a firm shake, and an exchange of smiles, and she pulls him in for a hug. The crowds cheer, and Vivian makes a cheeky comment that he doesn’t hear over the sound of his best friend thanking him for such a great battle. 

He’s walking down the hall, and he thinks of all the great Coordinators who have probably cried in the wake of Solidad’s beautiful path of ruthless ambition—all who have come before him, all who will come long after.

Harley smiles.

Crybaby is dead.

* * *

“Don’t leave me alone with these nobodies, Sol,” Harley whines. “I’m  _ begging _ you.”

“Would it kill you to have a little more respect for the competition?” a wry smile, hands adjusting the hem of his jacket. “You’ve been at this for how long, now? If you’re not Top Coordinator, it means you’re losing to  _ someone _ .”

“Yeah,” he rolls his eyes. “You. I’m losing to you.”

“Damn, you pulled your head outta your ass long enough to notice?”

“Cute,” he says. “Look, I don’t  _ hate _ them. I just wish you could come to Izabe with me.”

“Trust me, Harls, me too,” she says, a hand resting on her hip. “But I promised Drew I’d get coffee with him on Aster Island.”

“That twerp?” he crosses his arms. “He’s still, like, a thing?”

“He’s a great Coordinator, jackass,” she grins. “Plus, he’s head over heels for this girl and watching him try to articulate it is better than cable TV. Anyways, do I go around insulting your friends?”

“Please, honey,” Harley scoffs. “You know well as I do that I don’t have any friends.”

“I’m wounded, Harley,” she mock-cries. “Well, try and make some, then. No fair if you get to have all the fun laughing at mine.”

“Joke’s on you, love,” he tells her. “I was planning on it anyways!”

He holds up a well-worn basket, wrapped neatly in cloth, and she examines it with hesitation.

“Oh god, what did you do?”

“I baked cookies!”

“You did not bake cookies.”

“Why do you always doubt my brilliance, Sol?” he pouts dramatically, brow knitted. “Just because I made you that lumpy cake one year? It still tasted good!”

She sighs, a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It tasted  _ divine _ . You just didn’t react well to me laughing at it for a solid five.”

“Would you rather I’d have cried?” he keeps pouting.

“Nah, I saw enough of that teary face when we were kids,” she smiles. “At least snarky, petty Harley is happy.”

“Ew, sap alert,” he says. “Look, I’m not gonna kill anyone over the cookies.”

“Maybe not  _ kill, _ ” Solidad says, sentence trailing off with no end. She’s not sure even she could parse the inner workings of her best friend’s head. “Just, try and meet some other Coordinators. Some of the kids on this ferry are probably leagues ahead of you and me.”

“And who’s to say me threatening the life of a child over baked goods won’t earn me friends?” Harley smiles sweetly. “Can you think of a more wondrous origin story?”

“Yeah,” she tells him. “I can think of a couple hundred.”

The ship’s horn echoes across the pier, and Solidad brings him in for a hug. He’s beaming when he breaks free of her, so reluctant to leave, but knowing that there’s no way their paths won’t cross again soon.

“Take care, Harley,” she says, and she looks like she was plucked from the burning sky around them as the sun is dipping into the surrounding seas.

“Catch ya later, dollface,” he smiles, handing her a cookie.

He’s off to board with a wild swish of violet locks, and she lets the sugar dissolve on her tongue when she stops waving and turns around to board her own ferry. There’s heart in the taste of them, even though the texture is bordering on detestable. Solidad has to keep herself from laughing. They’re so distinctly  _ Harley _ it hurts.

Harley heaves a sigh as the pier begins to disappear on the horizon, and as his safety net vanishes from view. Cacturne is beside him, and the sound of its breathing hastening with the coming night is an odd sort of comfort. They lean into each other while he loses himself in thought.

_ Make some friends, she says, _ he rolls his eyes.  _ What a shrew. Heightening my standards, then complaining about their scale. _

He becomes lost in the sound of the waves, enjoying their rhythm while he can, before his stomach decides to collapse inward on itself. Staring out at the sun as it falls into the ocean, there’s a thought in his head that’s so often present: Solidad is perfect. He’s perfect, too. He’s angry at the world for making him believe he wasn’t, for so long. Perhaps that’s the problem he has with the competition—constantly infuriated that there’s too many kids who haven’t yet learned their worth, too many Coordinators still named Crybaby, named Uncommitted, named Maybe.

Harley sighs, again. It’s not his  _ job _ to make the talent realize who they are. But there’s something comforting about the idea of more people like him and Solidad existing, and finding each other—a tightly-knit family of Coordinators, all perfect and wondrous and talented, building each other up by beating each other down. A family of his own, perhaps, where he always seemed to lack one. The thought is warming, passionate—a kinship built on rivalry, on metamorphosis through one-upmanship. 

The Coordinator shuts his eyes, placing himself in the shoes of a person more open-hearted. It’s worth a shot, perhaps. The promise of rivals all around you, helping you to live your best life… maybe that’s why Solidad is as strong as she is. Maybe that’s why she likes the Drew kid so much. Maybe that’s why the Drew kid likes his little crush so much.

“Bulbasaur, Razor Leaf!”

Whoever she is.


End file.
